


Almost Normal

by wesleysgirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 02:39:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleysgirl/pseuds/wesleysgirl





	Almost Normal

It's been too long by the time he leaves Dean; Sam can't go back to school even if he wanted to, and he doesn't. He wants to look for Dad. He works at an all-night diner, looking for his dad during the day when he should be sleeping and drinking cup after cup of coffee to stay awake through the dark hours.

After the first few weeks, the leads all die down and depression sets in. Sam tries to sleep during the day, draped across the sour-smelling mattress and thin, worn sheets in his rented room. Rented by the week because he can't commit to more and because he needs that much stability, at least, even if it's an illusion. In the afternoons he watches mindless daytime TV and then showers in water that smells metallic. He walks the six blocks to work, collects his tips. He hoards every penny and buys the cheapest thing on the menu, a grilled hot dog with a side of potato chips, for his one half-off meal per shift.

The job doesn't last. Sam has a vision while he's holding two plates full of food and drops both of them onto the floor, shards of broken porcelain and mashed potatoes with gravy flying everywhere. The manager shouts at Sam that he's fired even as he's stumbling toward the door, trying to figure out what he's just seen and trying not to throw up on his shoes because they're the only pair he has, and he wishes bitterly, just for a second, that he could be as blithe about the whole fraudulent credit card thing as Dad and Dean are.

"Are you okay?" he hears someone ask in a worried voice.

Sam looks up, one hand braced on the brick wall.

The woman -- she's at least 20 years older than he is, but he refuses to think the accompanying phrase that goes along with that -- is holding her coat wrapped around her. "Do you -- do you need help? I could call someone..."

"No," Sam says, because the only person that can help him is the one person he can't -- _won't_ \-- call. "No, it's okay. I'm okay." He tries to remember what worked before. "Migraine. I'm just gonna go home and sleep it off."

"Okay." The woman sounds doubtful, but she goes away.

He makes it back to his room, then has to stumble into the hall to the pay phone where there's a phone book -- well, the yellow pages, who the hell knows where the white pages half ended up. Flips through it until he finds the number of the place that matches up with the flickering neon sign he saw flashing in his head and dials with trembling fingers. What he manages to say to the guy on the other end of the line probably doesn't make much sense, but they're all the way across the city and there's no way Sam can make it there; he can only hope. Then he calls 911 and tells them he was passing by the place in question and heard noises -- the cops won't be able to stop it either, but maybe they can slow things down, get some of the people out.

His room is so quiet that he rocks back and forth on the bed with his hands over his ears, trying to keep the silence out and force the pain back in. He wants Dean's snores, or his stupid tapes on the Impala's cassette player.

Sam's out of money a day later. He gets kicked out of the boarding house. He spends the first night in another all-night diner, nursing cups of coffee so they won't throw him out, dozing in between cups because he's that tired even despite the caffeine, and finally paying the bill with change that's mostly made up of nickels and pennies.

The second night, after looking all day for a job and not finding one, he finds an empty doorway and hunkers down with his duffle bag tucked underneath his legs and his arms wrapped around himself. He doesn't get much sleep, and he doesn't have enough money left in his pockets for anything, not even a candy bar, so what little sleep he does get is full of jerky and out of focus dreams about hot cheeseburgers dripping with ketchup and whole boxes of those fucking little strawberry shortcake rolls that Dean always hoarded.

Sam never even liked those shortcake things.

He swims up out of the dreams bleary and confused. In the seconds it takes him to wake up, he doesn't recognize the warning signs of the oncoming vision until it's already on him. It sears through him and out the other side, hurting so much that he can't even stay conscious. When he comes to again, there's a guy standing over him.

"Sorry," Sam says, staggering to his feet, barely able to get his body to work. "I didn't mean to... Was I...?" He knows there's something he's supposed to remember -- something he's supposed to do -- but he has no idea what it is.

"It's okay," the guy says. He offers his hand, and Sam takes it. It's warm and he holds on, not really shaking it. "Brad. This is your new life, huh?"

Sam blinks, trying to think. "What?"

"Well, you were somewhere else before this. Somewhere better." Brad shrugs. He's almost as tall as Sam, and his clothes are new and clean. Unlike Sam's, although Sam's not sure why. "Come on, kid."

"My name's Sam," Sam says. It's the only thing he knows. "Come where?"

"You look like you could use some breakfast." Brad holds up his hands. "No strings attached, okay? I just don't like to see guys starving to death." He grins suddenly, and it transforms his face, making him seem trustworthy, and Sam doesn't know what else to do but follow. His head aches in a way that seems wrong but also familiar. Maybe he hit it on something and got a concussion?

They go to Brad's apartment. It's pretty big, and very, very nice, and the kitchen smells like lemon dish soap. Brad cooks Sam half a dozen scrambled eggs and as many pieces of toast, spreading them thickly with butter and watching with a little smile as Sam eats it all ravenously, unable to remember why he's so hungry.

"You want to use the shower?" Brad asks, and Sam nods.

Brad comes into the bathroom while Sam's washing his hair -- there's no lock on the door.

"I'm just leaving some clean clothes here for you," Brad says from the other side of the shower curtain. "I think they'll fit okay."

They do, and putting them on makes Sam feel strange, like someone new. Not that he's sure who he used to be.

"Thanks for the clothes," he says to Brad, in the kitchen again. "I don't... I'm not sure why you're doing this."

Brad shrugs again. In the bright room, Sam can see that he's older than he seemed at first glance. Forty, maybe. "Let's just say I'd hope someone would do it for me if things were different. Sit down." Sam sits. "So how'd you get here?"

"See, that's the thing," Sam says. "I'm not really sure."

"Okay." Brad seems fine with that as an answer. "Actually, maybe we should go out and get you some more clothes."

"I, um... I don't think I have any money," Sam says, flushing and looking down at the table top.

Brad waves that away. "So? Come on; we can talk in the car."

The car is new and shiny, silver paint and black leather interior. It starts up so quietly that Sam is startled -- it's like he was waiting for it to be loud. Brad buys Sam jeans and khakis and shirts that button down the front and even, to Sam's embarrassment, underwear. Then he takes Sam back to his apartment and fucks him.

Okay, so maybe it's not that simple, but after, with his ass aching and his chest feeling tight, like he's not getting enough oxygen.... after, when Sam's in the shower mulling it over, wondering how he got there... but there isn't time to think then, either. Brad steps in under the hot water and kisses him. "You're perfect," Brad murmurs, and Sam's heart goes *ping* because he needs this so much, needs to hear that exactly that, even if he's not sure why. "I knew as soon as I saw you that you would be." Brad's hand snakes down between Sam's thighs and teases his balls, and Sam's cock, which is apparently very, very easy, gets hard.

Brad fucks him against the wall in the shower, and it doesn't hurt as much this time, not that Sam cares about that. And this time Sam doesn't wonder how this is happening; he just lets it happen, and he comes with Brad's hand wrapped around his dick.

It's like that for a few days; Brad seems to work from home, going into his office and closing the door for an hour or so at a time, then coming out again and sitting next to Sam on the couch, unbuttoning Sam's shirt with a casual hand, touching him, and then they're kissing and fucking and Sam always feels dazed afterwards, hung over, sore and, weirdly, kind of content.

Less than a week after Sam starts staying at Brad's apartment, something goes wrong. Sam's not surprised, because part of him was expecting it, but he _is_ confused. Brad comes out of his office looking annoyed and impatient, and he paces around the living room instead of sitting down next to Sam.

"What's wrong?" Sam asks.

"Work stuff. Don't worry about it." But Brad is angry, and Sam doesn't want to see him like that. The peace of being here is one of the things he's really liked.

Sam gets up and goes over toward him. "Tell me," he says. Trying to convince someone to talk feels right, somehow. "I -- "

Brad backhands him, hard and unexpected, leaving Sam blinking at him, cradling his jaw. "Shut up," Brad says. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Fuck you," Sam says, turning, and then Brad's hand is on his arm, and Brad turns him around, hugs him.

"Christ, see what you made me do?" Brad pulls back and looks at Sam's face, studying it. "Don't talk back. It pisses me off. It's okay, you won't have a mark." He looks thoughtful, while Sam is still wondering what to think, what to feel. "Actually, if you wanted to help..."

Sam does. Of course he does. And that's when Brad explains that he arranges blind dates, and one of his clients just got stood up by someone he thought he could count on, but if Sam will just go on this date, just this once...

Sam's not stupid. He knows what this is.

He goes anyway.

He wears a white silk shirt that Brad chooses for him, and black jeans so tight that it almost hurts to sit down, and the older guy he meets at the restaurant's eyes light up when he sees him. They eat a meal that must cost at least a hundred dollars a plate if the quality and quantity are any indication, then the guy, whose hair is silver at the temples and whose hands are softer than any man's Sam's ever known, takes Sam back to his hotel room.

"I should have known Brad would come through for me." The man's name is James, and he undresses Sam quickly, his mouth hard on Sam's throat and chest. "Lie down on the bed."

Sam does. For a little while he thinks he's not going to get hard, and he worries that if he doesn't James will be mad at him, but James sucks wetly on his nipples and Sam's dick perks right up. James fucks him once on his back, then again with Sam on his stomach, limp cock pressed against the mattress as James thrusts into him again and again, breath hot and damp on the back of Sam's neck. James mutters all kinds of things, like how Sam is so beautiful and tight and how he wants to fuck him all night long.

Luckily, James's stamina pretty much craps out after that, and Sam leaves once James is snoring.

Brad smiles at him when he gets back to the apartment, and kisses him, and thanks him, and it's enough.

The next night, though, there's another client who'll be disappointed if Sam doesn't step up to the plate, and it's not like Sam has anything else to do other than watch TV, so he goes. This guy is nice when they go out for drinks, but as soon as they get into the elevator in the hotel he grabs Sam by the balls and pushed him up against the wall.

"Brad sure knows how to pick 'em." Harrison -- which Sam thinks is a last name, but it's hard to know -- twists his wrist and Sam cries out, then, while Sam's mouth is open, pushes two fingers inside. "Shut up." He sounds like Brad did the other night. "You think anybody gives a fuck what happens to you? Come on." The doors open. "Don't think I won't hurt you."

He does. A lot. And it's obvious that he enjoys it, too. He splits Sam's lip open with a casual backhand, and Sam knows he should fight -- part of him wants to, there's a part of him _screaming_ at him to fight -- but he thinks about Brad, who's pretty much all he has at this point, and takes it instead. Lies there while the brute of a guy fucks him so hard that afterwards Sam's legs are trembling as he gets dressed.

Four weeks in and Sam's used to it. Used to going where Brad tells him, used to Brad's mercurial mood swings, even used to being fucked by complete strangers. He tells himself he doesn't care; he's got a roof over his head and a bed to sleep in, and that feels like a luxury.

And anyway, there are plenty of times when Brad is really, really nice to him. Buys him stuff -- there's an XBox 360 under the TV and an ever-growing stack of DVDs next to it. Two stacks now, actually, since the first one kept falling over and he had to start a second. There's an entire room just for exercise equipment, where Sam spends two hours a day working out. Thinking about stuff like movies and video games and how much he can bench press keeps him from spending too much time worrying about the bigger picture.

He tries to tell Brad, once. "I feel like... there's something I've forgotten."

"Like what?" Brad asks, running his fingers through Sam's hair.

"I don't know." _My life_ , Sam thinks, but he can't even begin to figure out how to explain that without sounding like a total nutcase, so he lets the subject lie.

"You want to go out to dinner tonight?" Brad asks one afternoon, and Sam looks at him uncertainly.

"You mean work?"

"No," Brad says. "I mean you and me. Somewhere nice."

Sam's a little stunned, but he nods. "Yeah, okay. That'd be... yeah."

"Good." Brad heads for his office again, throwing over his shoulder, "Wear that Prada shirt I bought you. The dark gray one."

It's not a request, but Sam's gotten used to orders in a way he never would have imagined he could. He's not sure why, even though he thinks about it later while he's buttoning up the Prada shirt, feeling the ridiculous quality of the fabric against palms that are gradually growing smooth, callouses that he can't remember getting fading.

The restaurant Brad takes him to is the most expensive one Sam's ever been to. There are candles on the tables, dim lighting, thick cloth napkins, and a waiter with a little cloth draped over his arm. Brad orders a two hundred dollar bottle of wine and smiles at Sam across the table when the waiter leaves.

"Thanks," Sam says awkwardly, because he has the feeling that's what Brad is looking for. "This is nice." He glances around, worried that everyone can see how out of place he is here.

"I wanted to show you how much I appreciate you," Brad tells him.

They drink two bottles of wine at dinner and have to take a cab home. Sam stumbles in the hallway and Brad catches him, laughing.

"You had too much to drink," Brad says.

"I wasn't the only one," Sam tells him, leaning against the wall.

Brad's hand slides around to Sam's ass and squeezes. "You had twice as much as I did," he murmurs, his mouth hot on Sam's neck. "I'm surprised you can still stand up."

"I might not be for long," Sam says. "Are we going to bed?"

He's so drunk that he hardly knows what's going on, and when Brad rolls him onto his stomach and pushes his dick into him, Sam groans at the invasion.

"You're such a slut," Brad gasps. "You love this, don't you."

"Yeah," Sam says, pressing his face into the pillow and clenching his hands in the sheets. "Yeah."

Four months in and Sam's happy, mostly. Sure, maybe he's a little overworked -- overfucked -- but this life feels peaceful. Sometimes he has dreams that he can't explain, terrifying dreams, but he tells himself he just needs to stop watching so many horror movies.

Still, everything's fine until the night something hits him, a two by four to the face knocking him off his feet and onto the floor, all the air leaving his lungs.

_Dean._

_Dean in a fight where he's impossibly outnumbered, being held down by five men as a sixth cuts off his arm with an axe. Blood jerks out of the stump that's left behind, an inconsistent fountain, and Sam can_ smell _it, hot and sharp and meaty..._

He rolls onto his side and pukes, his gut clenching up, and it's on him again before he can catch his breath.

_Dean's eyes wide. His face whiter than Sam's ever seen it, not even twisted in pain because there's no room there for anything but shock. His legs kick once, twice, and then the men let go, fall away from him, and he lies there, staring up at the sky, unmoving._

The world twists like a view from a camera, skewed and nauseating in its intensity, and Sam curls his spine, pulling himself up onto his elbows and knees and shaking, shaking, because it's _Dean_ and everything he'd thought was fine is nothing but a lie. He can see it now. He remembers everything.

"Sam?" Brad is there, but Sam's head hurts so much that he can't answer right away. "What the fuck?"

"I don't -- " He tries to get his brain to work. "Headache."

"Jesus." Brad's hands are tentative on Sam -- that's new. "I thought you were having a stroke or a... a seizure, or something."

Sam wipes his mouth with shaking fingers, tasting bile. "Migraine. Sometimes." He's aware enough to know that he can't tell the truth.

"Can you get up?" Brad pulls at him, and Sam does his best to get his feet under him.

"I have to go," he says.

"What do you mean, go? To the hospital?" Brad holds onto Sam's upper arms as he slumps against the wall, letting it prop him up.

"No," Sam says. "Just... go. I have to find my brother." He feels sick, knowing that he's forgotten Dean all this time, but he can't let that matter now. He has to focus and find Dean.

Brad is watching him, and for the first time Sam realizes that he _hates_ the expression Brad's wearing. It's a combination of worried and angry and disappointed, and it might, just a little bit, remind him of his dad. "You can't go," Brad says tightly.

"Yeah, I can," Sam says, straightening up, and Brad lifts a hand, ready to hit him. Without giving it a thought, Sam grabs onto the front of Brad's shirt and shoves him backward into the opposite wall. "I'm going."

Brad's eyes are wide and scared -- that's new, too -- and all he does is nod.

Sam takes his jacket, walks out and doesn't look back.

 

 

He gets two blocks before he can stop and think. Where the hell is Dean, and how much time does he have to get to him? There's a convenience store across the street -- Sam crosses without looking and some asshole in a green pickup blares the horn at him, but he's more focused on the phone that's attached to the brick wall exterior. Please let it be working.

It is, and he dials Dean's cell phone number with shaking fingers, pressing his temple against the metal edge of the protective case around the phone. God, his head hurts. The phone rings and rings, then Dean's voice, impatient, says, "Yeah?"

"Dean," Sam gasps. His knees are weak with relief. "Dean, are you -- "

" _Sam_." Dean sounds just as relieved. "Where are hell are you? Are you okay?"

"I don't know," Sam says, because how does he explain the past months of silence, let alone what he's been doing with them? "I mean, yeah, I am. Are you?"

"M'fine." Dean brushes off the concern and gets down to business. "Tell me where you are. Are you in Sacramento?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "How did you -- ?" He's suddenly awkward, remembering the way he took off. "Listen, Dean. I had -- I had a vision. I saw you -- "

"Yeah, and you're gonna see me again," Dean says. "I'm about four hours from you. Is there somewhere you can meet me?"

Sam looks up the street -- he can't really see anything from where he is, but he's thinking. "There's, um... there's a Starbucks at 3rd and Broadway."

"Good." Dean sounds distracted now, like he's writing something down. Sam can picture the little frown on his face as he concentrates. "Good. Okay. I'll be there. Wait for me, Sam."

"I will," Sam says, and he wants to keep talking, to ask Dean to keep talking to him so he won't forget him again, but instead he forces himself to hang up the phone.

There's money in his pocket; more than a hundred dollars. There've been times in Sam's life he's wished for nothing more than a couple of hours on his own in a coffee shop with a good book, but this isn't one of them. He must check his watch -- a present from Brad that Sam had thanked him for by sucking him off in the front seat of his car -- a hundred times in the first hour. After that, he's a little calmer, sipping his second decaf coffee (because he's jittery enough without caffeine) and trying to focus on the free city paper he snagged from the rack.

During the third hour, Sam shoves his chair back against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest. He's tired enough that dozing seems like a reasonable thing to do, and he's already bought two scones and a muffin in addition to the overpriced coffee, so he's pretty sure he's in no danger of being asked to leave. The place isn't all that crowded, anyway.

He actually falls asleep for a few minutes -- maybe more -- and wakes with a jerk, tense and miserable. He gets up and goes back to the bathroom, leaving his jacket draped over his chair to mark his place.

Sam washes his hands when he's done, unlocks the door, steps out into the small, narrow hallway, and finds himself pushed back inside by a guy roughly the size of a mack truck. His head hits the wall with a crack that he can feel all the way down into his heels. Big arms on his shoulders, pinning him to the wall, and when his eyes can focus again Brad's standing there beside the big guy.

"I don't know what you think you're doing," Brad tells him, like he's out of control and doesn't realize it.

"Getting the hell away from you," Sam says, struggling in a token sort of way, testing to see if he's going to be able to get free. The guy restraining him muscles him into the wall, the fifty pounds he's got on Sam making it seem easy to keep him pinned with one hulking arm across Sam's collarbone.

Brad shakes his head sadly. "Now, Sam, is that nice? And after everything I've done for you. You owe me."

Sam laughs because it's funny. Brad nods and the big guy punches Sam in the stomach. He gasps for air, trying to recover and thinking that if he can get his knee a couple of inches to the left...

"Get him down," Brad says, and then Sam's _on_ his knees with one hand on his throat and another tangled in his hair, and Brad's undoing the front of his two-hundred-dollar slacks, reaching inside and taking out his cock. Seeing it shows Sam just how well he's been trained -- his own dick starts to get hard even though he doesn't _want_ this, doesn't --

From the other side of the door, he hears, "Sam? You in there?"

Dean.

Sam says, putting every bit of urgency that he's feeling into it, " _Dean_ ," but then the hand around his throat tightens and everything happens fast. The bathroom door slams open, knocking Brad off balance, and Dean's standing there with the Colt .45 and a grim look on his face. "Let go of him," he says, jerking his chin at the big guy behind Sam. He reaches out a hand and Sam takes it, getting to his feet. "I don't know what the fuck is going on here," Dean says. He glowers at Brad, who's zipping up his slacks and looking nervous again. "And I don't care. We're going. Come on, Sam."

They go out the back. Sam's hands don't start to shake until he's in the Impala, the smell of the car as reassuring as anything he can remember. They drive for ten minutes, Dean glancing in the rearview mirror the whole time, before either of them says anything.

"You okay?" Dean asks.

"Yeah." There are a dozen things Sam wants to say, and a hundred he doesn't. "Thanks."

"No problem," Dean says. "You know those guys?"

Sam breathes in slowly through his nose. He doesn't want to lie, but he can't deal with this right now, he really can't. "They surprised me coming out of the bathroom," he says.

There's a short pause, then Dean accepts it. "Well. Good thing I showed up when I did."

"Yeah," Sam says.

They don't go far -- right to the outskirts of the city, where they get a room at a cheap hotel. Sam never would have figured he'd be so glad to see crummy polyester bedspreads and smell stale cigarette smoke. He doesn't have anything -- not a bag, not a change of clothes, not even his jacket, which as far as he knows is still in Starbucks -- and he's not sure he cares. His head still doesn't feel right.

He kicks off his shoes, gets into the bed furthest from the door, and shuts his eyes. He can feel Dean's eyes on him, watching, wondering, but Dean doesn't say anything.

"I had a vision," Sam says.

"Yeah?" Dean says. "Of what?"

"You." The room's quiet. "You getting hurt."

"Did it happen in a shitty hotel room?" Dean asks.

Sam doesn't move. "No."

"Then let's worry about it in the morning, okay? I swear I won't leave here before then." Dean turns on the TV, and Sam, strangely comforted, falls asleep like that.

He wakes up in the middle of the night humping the mattress, caught in the middle of a dream about being fucked, taking it, some guy's big dick driving into him again and again, and it feels so good it's hard to believe it's not real. As awareness filters back in, he grits his teeth and gets up, ignoring the erection inside his slacks and going into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Sam takes what might be the longest shower of his life. It feels like maybe he'll never get clean; all those guys he let fuck him, all the cocks he sucked. He doesn't want to think about -- can't think about -- how good it felt, how much he liked it most of the time. That's too fucked up. He scrubs his skin raw until the water starts to run cold.

When he opens the bathroom door, finally, Dean's sitting up on the end of the bed, dressed. Waiting for him. "Hey," Dean says.

"Hey." Sam stands there, towel wrapped around his waist and feeling exposed in new and uncomfortable ways.

"You were in there kind of a long time," Dean says. "I was starting to get worried."

"I'm fine," Sam says.

"Yeah? Because you don't look it."

Sam glances down at his incredibly cut, fit body, every muscle delineated, then up again at Dean in disbelief. "Are you kidding me? I look incredible." He'd been told so more times than he could count, in fact.

"That's not what I mean," Dean says, frowning. He waves a hand at Sam, struggling for words and not finding any. "You've hardly said five words to me since last night."

"Well maybe that's because we were sleeping." Sam won't have this conversation -- definitely not now, maybe not ever. He pulls on the same slacks he was wearing before and raids Dean's bag for a clean t-shirt. "Just drop it, okay?"

"I can't," Dean says. "Believe me, I want to, but I _know_ you. You think I can't tell when something's wrong?"

"What's wrong," Sam says, "is that I had a vision where I saw you getting jumped by six guys."

"Not like it'd be the first time," Dean smirks.

"They cut off your _arm_ ," Sam says, feeling sick as he remembers. He manages to walk to the few steps to the foot of his bed and sits down. "I didn't remember you," he says softly, looking at Dean.

"What, in the vision?"

"No -- for the last four months. Or however long it's been. I had a vision and ended up with some kind of... I don't know, amnesia, I think. I knew who I was, but everything else... I forgot everything. Dad. You." He swallows heavily. "I forgot you, Dean."

Dean looks shell-shocked for a second or two, but manages to shrug it off. "Well, that must've been a relief."

Sam laughs shakily. Trust his brother to say something like that. "Not really, no," he says. "It was pretty freaky, actually." Looking down at his hands, he whispers, "What if it happens again?"

"We'll be together," Dean says immediately. "You won't be able to forget me -- I'll be right here making you wish I wasn't."

"Dean," Sam says, "about that -- "

But that's when the door to their room is broken in, with a loud sound of bent metal and splintered wood, and a crowd of men, eight or ten at least, rushes inside. Sam leaps into the fray, but he's out of practice even if he's in the best shape of his life and he's not as effective as he wants to be. He manages to knock one guy down. They're not focused on him, though -- they want Dean, and there are enough of them that they drag him out of the room despite his kicking and struggling.

Sam goes after them, and it's not until they're in the parking lot that the outline of the cars forms into something shaky and familiar, something that forces the air from his lungs even before he sees that one of the men is holding an axe.

"You didn't think I was just going to let you walk away without any consequences, did you?" Brad steps from the shadows. "You're worth more to me than that, Sam."

"Just let him go," Sam says. He'll promise anything just then, anything to prevent what he's already seen will happen. He feels hot bile at the back of his throat, remembering.

Brad shakes his head sadly. "I don't think I can do that. He's had you for hours. And he doesn't look like the kind of guy with the money to pay me what you're worth."

"What the fuck is he talking about, Sam?" Dean asks, his voice hoarse.

"I'm sorry," Sam says. "Dean, I -- I've gotta go with him." His eyes burn.

Dean struggles against the men holding him. "No way," he says, and one of them hits him in the face. When he looks up, there's blood running down his cheek from his split eyebrow. "Don't you dare bail on me again." He looks at Sam fiercely, and a flitting memory of the vision dances around the edges of Sam's eyes --

 _Brad reaching inside his jacket, going for a gun tucked into a holster there_ \--

A tangle of thoughts twitches in Sam's head: the gun has to be new, it's been a long time since Brad held one, he'll fumble when he goes for it, and even out of practice Sam's a hell of a lot faster than Brad.

Plus Brad doesn't know that _Sam_ knows about the gun.

Sam holds his hands up, placating. "Don't hurt him," he says, stepping toward Brad slowly. "I'll do whatever you want -- just let him go."

"Sam!" Dean says, but Sam ignores him, not looking at anyone but Brad.

"You could get in a lot of trouble over something like this," Sam says. "You don't want that. _I_ don't want that." He gets half a step closer. Almost...

He must be a hell of an actor, because Brad relaxes, just a little bit, and that's all the opening Sam needs. He hits Brad in the mouth, feeling the satisfying crunch of teeth against knuckles, and gets his hand wrapped around the gun while Brad is still off-balance.

Sam whirls, pointing the gun at the men who're holding Dean down. The one with the axe already has it raised -- maybe for real, maybe as a threat, but it doesn't matter because Sam's pulling the trigger before he can make up his mind which it is. One, two, three, and they scatter like cockroaches when the light's turned on, the axe clattering to the pavement and Dean stumbling before he gets his legs under him.

"You okay?" Sam asks, and he hears Dean shout his name just before the world goes black.

__________________

Fuck, his head hurts. Sam groans and lifts a hand to it, and the rhythm of the tires on the road -- funny how he knows that's what it is -- starts to slow immediately.

"Sam?" Dean's voice, so everything's okay. Dean's hand settles on his shoulder and squeezes.

He opens his eyes and sees that they're pulling over to the side of the road. The sun's high enough that it's got to be late morning. "What happened?"

"Your friend back there hit you over the head," Dean says, putting the car in park. "Knocked you right out."

"Is he dead?" Sam asks.

"Nah. Left him tied up in one of the empty motel rooms." Dean gives one of those little grins, the kind that's supposed to make Sam think he's more amused than he really is. "Probably be another day before anybody finds him." There's still dried blood on his face, though Sam can tell he made an effort to clean it off.

Sam sits up straighter, wincing. "Where are we?"

"Couple hours outside the city. I figured we might as well get as much distance between that guy and us as possible. You know, what with him knowing you and all." Dean looks over at him. "Who was that guy, Sam?"

"Just a guy," Sam says, but Dean frowns and he relents. "I was staying with him, okay?"

"So, what, you owed him money? Is that what all that stuff about paying what you're worth was about?" Dean sounds like he wants Sam to tell him that's all it was, and part of Sam _wants_ to do that. They've spent so much of their lives getting good at lying that he _could_ do that. But Dean's jaw is set in that stubborn way that tells Sam he's not going to let this one go easily, and Sam's tired enough to give in.

"He was my pimp, Dean," Sam says, closing his eyes and leaning forward until his forehead is pressed gently against the dashboard.

"He was your -- " Dean stops. "Dude, don't do that to me. For a second there I thought you were serious."

Sam sighs and turns his head until their eyes meet. He doesn't say anything.

After a minute Dean swallows and glances down, looks away. His hands settle on the steering wheel. Tighten there. Relax. Tighten again. Sam wishes there was something he could do to make this all go away; not for him, because he can live with it, but for Dean, who's always tried so hard to keep anything bad from happening to him.

"You think he's gonna try to track you down?" Dean asks finally.

Sam sits back and thinks about it, then shakes his head. A car passes them and he wraps an arm around his waist, holding himself together. "Can we get out of here?"

Dean nods. "Yeah. Sure."

They drive two hours before stopping for lunch at a crowded diner. Sam gestures at his own head as they step inside, pointing out Dean's split eyebrow, and Dean disappears into the bathroom for ten minutes and comes out looking almost normal.

Whatever that means.

Sam's grateful for the press of people around them because it means they can't talk about anything but the food and where to go next. Dean's got a lead on what sounds like it might be a Guyaksas in Spring Valley, Nevada, and right then Sam just wants to get the hell out of California.

"What about Dad?" he asks. "I was looking for him, before the whole... amnesia thing, but I wasn't getting anywhere."

Dean sets down his glass of coke and thumbs a drop of moisture from his lower lip. "I've been looking. No one's seen him, no one's heard from him. No one I know about, at least. His phone still rings through to voicemail, though, so that's something. Means he's still paying the bill."

"Or he linked it to a credit card and it's going through on automatic payment," Sam says, but when Dean glares at him, he widens his eyes. "Sorry."

"He's probably just busy," Dean says. "You know what he's like."

"Yeah," Sam says. "I do."

They cross over the state line into Nevada mid-afternoon, and Dean pulls into the parking lot of the next motel they see. "I'm tired," he says, but as soon as Sam sits down on the bed Dean's up again. "Going out for a drink."

There's a bar across the street. Sam thinks about offering to go with him, but it's pretty clear Dean needs some space, so instead he reaches for the TV remote and says, "Okay."

Dean doesn't come back until after 1 am. He's not as drunk as Sam suspected he might be, but his eyes are bloodshot and his clothes stink of cigarette smoke. He looks surprised to see Sam still up, or maybe it's wary. "Figured you'd be asleep by now," Dean says gruffly, toeing off his boots.

"I thought about it," Sam says, "but then I found this knife show on HSN and I couldn't tear myself away." He's sitting up against the headboard with two pillows tucked in behind him.

"Those collector's knives are nothing but crap and you know it," Dean says. Jerking his t-shirt off over his head, he goes into the bathroom. He doesn't shut the door -- Sam can hear water splashing in the sink, and after a minute Dean comes back out with water droplets glistening at the tips of his hair and another trailing its way down over his chest. He throws himself down onto his bed and gestures for the remote.

Sam says, "Forget it."

"There's no way I'm watching this shit," Dean says.

"Then go to sleep," Sam tells him. "Who says you get to decide what we watch?"

"I'm older than you," Dean says, like they're still little kids and that's a reasonable argument. "Plus I have taste." He sits up and reaches his hand out toward Sam, palm up, waiting for Sam to obey, and Sam's chest gets tight.

"I said _no_ ," he says.

"Give me the fucking remote, Sam," Dean says, and Sam stares at him while deliberately and slowly tucking the remote underneath his thigh. Dean doesn't hesitate -- he gets up and grabs for it, and Sam shoves at him, and then they're wrestling. Somehow, they end up on the floor between the two beds, Dean straddling Sam and pinning his wrists to the floor.

Sam freezes, panting. He has no idea where the remote is, and right then he doesn't care, because everything's gotten so fucked up. "Dean..."

"Why'd you do that, Sammy?" Dean asks. He loosens his grip on Sam's wrists, but doesn't let go of them. His eyes look wet, and Sam knows he's not talking about the remote. "Why would you go and do something like that? Did he threaten you? Were you -- don't tell me you were in love with the son of a bitch." It sounds like begging.

Helpless, Sam inhales shakily. "I don't know," he says. He's acutely aware of where the backs of Dean's thighs and ass are touching him -- one of his own knees is bent, so Dean's sitting cradled in his almost-lap. "I was just -- lonely, I guess." He shakes his head and sits up, pushing at Dean, who gets off of him. "How fucked up is that? I didn't even remember you existed and I _still_ missed you."

"Are you --" Dean swallows, looking down at his hands. "Are you okay? I mean, maybe you should see a doctor or something."

"It wasn't like that," Sam says. "I always used -- " He can't say it, not to Dean. "I was safe."

"Probably a hell of a lot safer than I was most of the time," Dean says, trying for lighthearted. "There was this ghost in Chula Vista..." He glances up and sees Sam watching him. Lets his head tilt until it's resting on the side of the mattress. Sighs heavily. "I'm trying here, Sam."

"I know," Sam tells him. "I don't know what to say, either. What to do. It's all... one vision, and everything was just wiped out. What if it happens again?"

Just like before, Dean's quick to reassure him. "I'll be here to smack some sense into your thick skull. Speaking of which." He shifts closer, reaching for Sam, and Sam lowers his head, lets Dean slide gentle fingers into his hair. The goose egg aches when Dean's fingertips find it. "Ah, it's not so bad," Dean says; his hand moves lower to cup the base of Sam's skull. "You'll live."

Sam looks up at Dean's face. They're close enough that he can smell the beer on Dean's breath. In the background, there's the sound of the TV, and it's more than Sam's head that's aching. It feels like there's a fist shoved inside his heart; not squeezing it, but taking up all the space in his chest so nothing can work. He's broken somewhere and doesn't know how to fix it, or even if it can be fixed.

He exhales and leans forward, forehead on Dean's shoulder. "Hey, come on," Dean says, thumb rubbing over Sam's spine. "It's gonna be okay."

Nodding, Sam puts an arm around Dean's waist and hangs on, and Dean, warm and pliant from too much beer and still stinking of cigarette smoke, lets him without calling him a bitch or beating a hasty retreat. "It's been... kind of a rough few months," Sam says in a hoarse sort of gasp, almost laughing at how much of an understatement that is.

"Yeah," Dean says. "I'm getting that."

Dangerously close to tears, Sam pulls away, knuckling at his eyes and turning so Dean can't see his face as he gets up. "It's late," he says. "We should get some sleep."

He doesn't sleep, though. Even when the room's dark, the TV off, Dean snoring five feet away, Sam lies on his back staring at the ceiling and wondering what the fuck he's supposed to do now.

__________________

Of course, Sam does what he always does -- whatever he has to. He and Dean drive the rest of the way to Spring Valley, where it turns out the Guyaksas is just a poltergeist, and not even an interesting one at that. They get rid of it in less than a day, and Dean sulks for the next 24 hours.

"God forbid we run across anything new," he mutters as they're packing up the car.

"Same old, same old," he complains at the bar where they're having a beer that night.

"Maybe today, we'll run across a _residual haunting_ ," is the first thing Dean says when they wake up the following morning.

Sam, unreasonably irritable, sits up and gives him a disgusted look. "Would you let it go already? It was just a poltergeist -- big deal! Do I need to remind you that running into new and more interesting supernatural creatures usually means one of us getting hurt?"

Dean's hair is messed up from sleeping, the sheet slipped down low enough to expose one perfect hipbone, his skin smooth and tempting. Sam feels a rush of lust. "It'd just be nice," Dean says. "That's all. Is it too much to ask for a little variety?"

"Apparently not," Sam says hotly, glad he fell asleep in his jeans as he throws back the covers and stalks toward the bathroom, knowing that he needs to get away from Dean. "Personally, I've had more than enough for one lifetime." He has to try to slam the door twice before it'll latch. Fucking cheap motels.

He doesn't come out for twenty minutes just because he knows Dean always has to piss first thing in the morning and it gives him a vicious satisfaction to think of him holding it. When he does open the bathroom door, Dean grumbles and pushes past him. Comes out a minute later. "What the hell is your problem?"

"I don't know," Sam says, not looking at him because he knows what he'll see. What he'll want.

__________________

It starts to make him even more crazy after that. They buy Sam some clothes and go through two more jobs -- a haunted high school in Chandler, Arizona, then north to a factory in Rupert, Idaho -- and every day Sam gets twitchier. It's not like Dean doesn't notice; he glances at Sam way more often than usual, and a couple of times even tries to start a conversation about it, but Sam blows him off.

"There's supposed to be this cursed house in Bend, Oregon," Dean offers, leaning on the car as he pumps gas at almost three dollars a gallon. There are days Sam thinks the increased gas prices are going to be the straw that breaks the demon-hunters back.

"Yeah?" Sam tries to sound more interested than he is. The roof of the Impala's hot from the sunshine, but he leaves his arm against it, seeing how long he can take the heat.

Dean's giving him another one of those looks. "Rumor has it the place is haunted. People've seen dark figures in the upstairs windows, stuff like that. The last family moved out after like a week, and there's a new one just bought the place. It might be worth looking into." He finishes with the gas and puts the nozzle back.

"Yeah, okay."

Making a frustrated noise, Dean puts the gas cap back on and shuts the little door with a click. "You don't have to sound so excited about it."

"Sorry," Sam says, meaning it. None of this is Dean's fault. "I'm just..."

"Bored?" Dean suggests.

After a long moment thinking, Sam says, "Maybe. Let's go out tonight, okay? Have a few drinks?" Dean's been going on his own, so Sam means it as a peace offering.

Dean looks at him. Nods. "Okay."

As it turns out, Sam realizes blearily that evening, it might not have been so much a peace offering as a really, really bad idea. He's at least five sheets to the wind, if not the full seven, and apparently when he's drunk there aren't all that many guys that _don't_ look hot to him.

He's always had a thing for guys. He knows that now. It was something he'd always pushed aside in the past, because he always liked girls, too, and it was a hell of a lot easier to focus on them than add a whole new level of complication to his life. But now, with more shots than he can count burning their way through him and a hell of a lot more guys in the bar than girls, he finds himself watching them. His eyes map out what they might look like under their clothes and he's glad he's sitting at a table because it means no one can see the erection swelling inside his jeans.

Dean, who's had a girl hanging on his arm for the past half hour and isn't looking as happy about it as he usually does, shakes her off and comes over to the table, which is pushed up against the wall. "Dude, are you coming or what?" He's holding a pool cue. Sam thinks that must mean he's asking about playing pool.

"I don't know if I can stand up at this point," Sam admits, reaching to tip his empty glass toward Dean to illustrate the point. But he knocks it over instead, the last half inch of amber liquid spilling out onto the tabletop. "Damn."

"Are you serious? How much did you have to drink?" Dean seems to see the many empty glasses for the first time. "Oh, great. Are you gonna puke?"

"No," Sam says. "But I'm not gonna play pool, either." He stands up, his balance shitty enough that his chair almost falls over. "Look, I'm going back to the room, okay? You have fun without me." Reaching out to pat Dean's shoulder, he almost falls, and Dean grabs onto him, steadies him.

"All right, come on." Dean says something to the girl standing behind him; she responds in a disappointed tone and Dean snaps at her, irritated.

It isn't until they're outside, the night air shockingly cold, that Sam says, "I'm fine, Dean. I can walk half a block. Stay here." He's all torn up, wanting things he shouldn't want and can't have.

"Yeah, that'd be a good idea, leaving my drunk-off-his-ass little brother to walk out into the middle of the street and get hit by a car. Or worse."

Sam wishes he could think there isn't anything worse than can happen to him, but as much as he'd like it if that were true, he knows it's not. There are still worse things: Never finding Dad. Having something happen to Dean. His flesh crawls and he clutches at Dean's shoulder. They both stumble.

"Okay, okay," Dean says, propping Sam up against a wall. "Hang on a second." He gets the door opened -- Sam doesn't even remember getting here -- and then walks Sam inside and over to his bed. "Go on, sleep it off."

"I can't sleep in these," Sam says, even as he's flopping down onto the bed. He rolls onto his back and fumbles with the button on his jeans, which are still new enough to have that stiff denim thing going on. His fingers are clumsy and useless and he gives up. Tries to kick off his boots, but he can't manage that, either.

"Oh, for God's sake," Dean mutters. He comes over and unties Sam's boots, jerks them off him, drops them to the floor with two muffled thumps. Hesitates, while Sam watches him, before leaning over the bed and unbuttoning Sam's jeans.

A longer pause -- Sam's dick is hard, and there's no way Dean doesn't see it -- and then Dean slowly, slowly slides down Sam's zipper. Sam's never wanted so badly to feel someone else's hands on him.

Dean swallows and looks up at him. "There," he says hoarsely. "Think you can do the rest on your own?"

That's the sentence that trips the switch for Sam. He sits up, catching onto Dean's arm. "No," he says. "I can't. I don't -- I can't do this alone, Dean."

"You aren't," Dean says. "I'm right here. Whatever you need. I know I'm no good at this talking thing -- maybe we can find, I don't know, a shrink or something. Someone who knows how to deal with stuff like this, because I'm -- "

Sam grabs the front of Dean's t-shirt and tugs, and Dean, who's already off balance, ends up half on top of Sam. He's close enough to kiss, and that's what Sam does -- pulls Dean's mouth against his, hard and desperate and awkward just like everything else. Dean fights him half-heartedly but doesn't do any of the things he could: doesn't shove Sam away, or hit him, or storm out of the room. After a few seconds, though, he puts a hand on the mattress for leverage and pulls back. "Sam..."

"I know," Sam says. "I know. There are a million reasons not to, I _know_ that. I wish I didn't want it. But I do." Dean is the piece that was missing, and it's Dean that can put him back together again. "Please."

And Dean -- who lives to keep Sam safe and whole -- nods, a little jerk of his head, and says roughly, "Shh. Okay. Okay, Sam."

Sam takes some comfort in the fact that Dean leans in for the next kiss. His lips are hot and there's the sharp tang of alcohol in his mouth, and Sam hitches himself over, making room on the bed for Dean beside him. Dean doesn't stop kissing him, but doesn't lie down, either. Then Dean's hand is in Sam's pants, finding his cock. There's nothing gentle about it; Dean jacks him gracelessly, crushing his lips to Sam's so hard that it almost hurts, and instead of thinking it's too much, Sam just wants more. A hungry, eager sound forms at the back of his throat.

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean murmurs, stroking him faster. His teeth worry at Sam's lip. "Give it up for me. I wanna feel it."

Sam gasps and arches, so close he can almost taste it. "No," he says, even though he can't keep his hips from fucking his dick into Dean's fist. "No, Dean, I want -- I want you." Dean's hand tightens exquisitely and Sam shudders. "I want you to fuck me." He's all caught up in it, twisted into a coil, one hand gripping onto the sleeve of Dean's shirt.

But it's too late to stop; Dean's thumb slicks across the head of his cock and Sam comes, dick throbbing in his brother's hand. He presses his face to the inside of Dean's shoulder and shuts his eyes until it's over. Dean's quiet -- and still -- for a long, long time. So long that Sam pulls away to look at him. It's like a cloud drifted in front of the sun -- Dean's closed off, his jaw tight, his eyes far away.

"Dean?"

Dean shakes his head a little bit. "Don't, Sammy."

"Don't what?" Sam traces Dean's lower lip. "Don't want you? Don't love you?" Dean shakes his head again, wordless, and Sam kisses him gently, teasing at his lips until Dean finally relaxes and kisses back. Sam runs a hand up and down along Dean's arm, then lower, settling it on his hip.

Something in Dean seems to snap. He gets both hands on Sam's face, holding it still while he plunders his mouth. Gasping, he gets his fingers tangled into Sam's hair and jerks his head back, teeth scraping along the sensitive skin of Sam's throat. "Not supposed to want this," he mutters, and Sam's not sure which of them he's talking about.

"Says who?" Sam asks the ceiling. "And since when do we care what anyone else thinks, anyway?"

Dean laughs a little, shoving at Sam's t-shirt, rubbing over his nipple with the pad of one finger until Sam hisses. "Since never," he says, and pushes Sam down onto the bed, hands busy at the front of his own jeans. "Come on -- if we're gonna do this, let's do it right."

It all takes too long -- getting out of their clothes, finding what they need. By the time Dean rolls a condom on and reaches for him, Sam's shaking with need. He tries to turn over onto his stomach, because it's easier that way, but Dean frowns and leans his weight on Sam's hip, pinning him in place.

"Like this, okay?" Dean asks. His voice is as rough as Sam's ever heard it, and his hands are trembling.

"Yeah," Sam says. "Yeah, okay."

So that's how he's able to watch Dean's face as Dean pushes slowly into him for the first time. He knows Dean better than anyone, ever, and it's with a sense of wonder that Sam discovers there are still things to learn about him. The way his hips falter at the end of each thrust before one last little press like he's trying to get deeper. The sound he makes, something between a grunt and an attempt to clear his throat. The sweat that sheens on his skin and makes the frictioned spots on Sam's thighs prickle and sting.

Neither of them says anything, but every few seconds Dean's eyes meet Sam's before skittering away again, like the connection between them is too intense, too much to bear. Or maybe Sam just thinks that because it's how _he_ feels. He slides his hands down to Dean's lower back, the slick skin there, warm, and shuts his eyes, thinking about nothing and everything and Dean.

It isn't until Dean loses his rhythm that he also breaks his silence, and when he does, he says, hoarse, despairing, " _Sam_." Then once more, with what might be a hint of wonder, but his voice cracks and he collapses down on top of Sam, shuddering, throbbing, and Sam just holds on.

"Hey," Sam says finally, when Dean hasn't moved. "You okay?"

"You mean other than being unconscious?" Dean asks, his chin digging into Sam's collar bone as he speaks.

Sam grins. "Yeah. Other than that."

Planting his hands on either side of Sam, Dean pushes himself up, groaning slightly. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I'm good." He blinks down at Sam, half-dazed. "How about you?"

"Uh-huh," Sam says. As Dean pulls away and gets rid of the condom, Sam watches him; he can't help but think that none of this seems weird. In fact, it feels right. Dean falls down next to him again, face planted in a pillow.

After a minute, Dean's eye -- the one that's not hidden in the pillow -- opens. "You sure you're okay?"

"Dean... you're not getting mushy on me, are you?" Sam asks, and Dean pokes him in the ribs hard enough to make him yelp. "Hey!"

"Bitch," Dean growls, and promptly falls asleep.

__________________

Sam wakes up first. They're facing each other, inches apart, and one of Dean's ankles is tucked between Sam's calves. It'd be endearing if Sam had time to think about it more, but he's too busy looking at Dean's peacefully sleeping face. Asleep, all the tension is gone, and when he squints a little bit Sam can see the boy Dean was, way back when. He can't resist leaning forward and kissing him.

Dean's eyes open. For a second, he looks confused, and Sam worries that he's going to freak out. Then, "Dude, your breath _stinks_ ," Dean mutters, and he stumbles out of the bed to the bathroom. He doesn't shut the door, so Sam has no choice but to listen to him taking the longest leak in history. It's seriously disgusting.

But when Dean comes back, he gets into bed with Sam again.

"Bed hog," Dean complains, shoving at Sam until he moves over to make more room. Sam shifts sideways, and Dean puts his arm around Sam, his mouth pressed to Sam's bare shoulder. "'s too early. G'back t'sleep." It sounds like he's barely awake, and Sam feels safe in a way he hasn't in a long, long time.

He doesn't go back to sleep, but it's only because he wants to enjoy the feeling for as long as he can.

 

 

_End_

 

 

 

Many thanks to Yasminke for the beta  
and to Zortified for the encouragement.

  


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